


49. Take off your shirt.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Sherlock is keeping something close to his heart...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 16
Kudos: 155





	49. Take off your shirt.

“No,” Sherlock replied, clutching at the garment and then wincing and looking at his palms a little anxiously. There wasn’t any burning sensation yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Sherlock, I _know_ you haven’t deleted caustic burns. Hurry!” John hastily pulled on the household gloves from under the sink and then advanced on his flatmate.

“I’ll take care of it myself!” Sherlock protested, trying to edge past the doctor and make a break for the loo. Or his room. Anywhere with a locking door that he could put between himself and John for at least a few seconds.

“Look, whatever it is that you don’t want me to see - yes I noticed your recent body shyness Mister _Bedsheets at the Palace_ \- I promise you this is more important.” John made a successful grab for the front of the soiled shirt and started ripping at the buttons.

“No comments, no questions!” Sherlock yelped.

“Fine!” John snapped as he peeled the ruined garment down his flatmate’s arms, “Okay, now get in the– hang on, is that–”

“NO QUESTIONS!”

“Right, sorry, I was just…yeah, shower.” He turned to find a bucket to put the shirt in, and then shouted a reminder over his shoulder. “Cool water! Cold as you can stand!”

Sherlock scampered off without any snark or sass, which just made the moment even more surreal. John set the bucket under the tap and drowned the crumpled ball of fabric, then added the beaker of neutralizer that was sitting ready on the counter.

If he took drugs, Sherlock wrote a list for Mycroft. If he worked with chemicals, Sherlock set out clearly labeled counter-agents for John.

The bucket was lugged to the loo, where John knocked once and then let himself in.

“Put everything in here,” he called out, and nosed the container just past the shower curtain.

Trousers, pants, the splosh of one sock, then another sock…

“ _Everything_ ,” John prompted, and waited until there was also a sigh and a faint metallic shimmer and plop. Unfortunately for his curiosity, in the next instant Sherlock wrestled the bucket out of his hands and set it down in the tub. John rolled his eyes and passed through a toothbrush next.

“Here, scrub under your nails with this.”

“This is _mine!_ ”

“Oh, you want mine?” John asked sarcastically.

“May I?” came the hopeful reply, making him laugh despite…well, everything.

“No! Idiots who fail to follow the most basic of safety protocols when working with dangerous chemicals can sacrifice their own toothbrushes!”

He left Sherlock scrubbing and grumbling and returned to the living room, staunchly refusing to let his thoughts linger on the fact that he’d been just one flimsy plastic sheet away from his mad, gorgeous, idiotic genius of a flatmate all naked and dripping. John flumped down into his chair and thought about the necklace he’d glimpsed, because it was more polite than having a quick, guilty wank while indulging in a Peeping Tom fantasy.

Not really a necklace, at that. A simple ball chain, really, much like the one in his foot locker. But instead of identity discs, Sherlock was apparently walking around with a ring around his neck.

Smooth and simple, a man’s ring judging by the size and style, and made of silver, white gold, or platinum. Probably platinum, the posh git. There seemed to have been an engraving along the inside as well, though it may have also just been the warped reflection of the chain. Sherlock was hiding its existence, so it was very likely important and personal.

And John wasn’t allowed to comment on it or ask any questions, bugger it all. After a bit of pondering, he rummaged about in the desk and produced a notebook, in which he began scribbling down all the questions bouncing around in his head. Hypotheses to be tested, if you will. Turning a page, he made a list of observations gathered thus far, including his best estimate of when Sherlock had begun wearing the ring, based on the drop in frequency of Sherlock swishing around the flat in nothing but a sheet. He added the short list of restrictions as well, with a put-upon sigh.

No comments.

No questions.

He was willing to bet his pension, such as it was, that Sherlock would insist that these rules included both verbal and non-verbal forms of communication, so passing notes and sending texts were also out. Pantomime and gestures would just get ignored, or he’d be treated to a blistering review of his future as a street performer.

That left action, which luckily he was a man of.

Wrestling his flatmate to the floor and just taking the ring didn’t exactly…okay well the wrestling bit sounded like a good bit of fun, honestly, but it wouldn’t end well. Perhaps he could manage to express his wishes, make a request, and satisfy his curiosity with a less energetic approach.

= = = = = 

John started experimenting.

He kept it as non-threatening as he knew how. Queued up for coffee during a lull in cases, strangers all around so Sherlock would know that John didn’t mean to cause any sort of scene, he turned to his friend and in the shelter that their close-together bodies created, John caught Sherlock’s gaze and then dropped his own to Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock stopped tapping at his phone. Slowly, John brought up a hand and hovered it just above where he figured the ring might be hanging. And when Sherlock didn’t move away, didn’t flinch or deflect, John lightly brushed his hand over his friend’s shirt front. It looked like brushing a bit of lint or crumb off a mate. It felt like a secret held close.

The queue moved up, and John turned away to peruse the pastry case.

He felt certain that no one knew about the ring except for himself. Well, and perhaps Mycroft. It was more a feeling than proven fact, but his role and relative importance in the detective’s life was no small factor. And he did have some evidence to log in his notebook; Sherlock kept well buttoned up when out and about, and if a visitor caught them lounging about in their sleepwear, the soft outline of the ring always disappeared under a robe before the footsteps reached the first floor.

John observed, and never attempted his little pat-downs when at NSY, or in plain view of a CCTV monitor. 

Another conclusion John reached after almost six weeks was that Sherlock wore the ring constantly. There’d been many more light brushes, now also accomplished when they were alone together, tucked away at Baker Street. Sherlock had tensed the first few times, but John took no liberties beyond what he’d already been allowed, and soon it was almost a natural part of their life together.

John made toast and beans and Sherlock brewed tea. John chucked some of Sherlock’s experiments and Sherlock spoilt the ending of several of John’s books. John kept their little household running, and Sherlock kept the lights on.

John crept closer, and Sherlock let him come close.

He grasped the back of Sherlock’s neck when the detective was hunched over his microscope or a case file, feeling for the bumps of the chain. And the quick caresses turned into lingering ones, and eventually evolved into John simply holding his hand over the tucked-away ring for a second or two.

For several seconds.

For eighty six minutes one evening, when Sherlock shoved him further into the couch corner, laid two cushions across his lap, and then threw himself across the resulting pile and promptly shut himself into his mind palace. John watched a movie and idly traced the ring through the thin vest Sherlock wore.

It was like a game, an inside joke, a flirtation.

John grew to love the ring merely for existing, for giving him this unlooked-for excuse to touch Sherlock, to draw near and share warmth and eye contact. But he still wondered about when and where and why.

And the possibility of who.

It looked like a wedding band. And a wedding band kept hidden from all the world might mean a secret marriage. A broken promise? Or one unfulfilled, but still alive with hope. A token, perhaps; nothing official but so very real all the same. A memento, or a memento mori. The ring might not even be for Sherlock’s fingers. He might be wearing it on a chain because it had been fitted for another person’s finger.

On good days, John toyed with romantic fancies and smiled faintly as he ran his fingertips over the metal circle. On other days, he wanted to tear it away and demand answers he had no rights to.

One night, he asked.

= = = = = 

The power went out, unfortunately during a storm, thankfully while they were in between cases and already having dinner. One moment they were sharing noodles out of paper cartons and having a heated debate over nothing at all, drowning out both the heavy rain and the telly with their laughter and jibes, and in the next, there was nothing but darkness. The rain was suddenly shockingly loud against the panes, and the two men sat blinking and glancing around, seeking each other out as they waited for their eyes to adjust.

“Do we have any candles?” Sherlock murmured, human after all and succumbing to the urge to lower his voice in the dark.

“Kitchen, I think,” John replied, and then they were both trying to untangle themselves from the afghan and set down their dinner on a table they could barely see. John got his noodles safely down but his chopsticks rolled and disappeared, and Sherlock snorted at his muttered curse before walking right into him and onto his foot.

“Ow, watch it.”

“Rather difficult for me to watch anything at the moment,” Sherlock sniffed, unrepentant. He then yelped as John made a lucky stomp in the dark and avenged his trod-upon toes. They snickered and scuffled like schoolboys and then grabbed at each other as they teetered over the uneven folds of blanket at their feet, and then suddenly it was all heavy silence again, only this time they were pressed together, a tangle of limbs and noisy breaths.

Hidden from sight, tucked away together, like the ring and chain.

John could feel them against his forearm through the thin material of Sherlock’s vest, and on impulse he dragged his hand up and hooked a finger ‘round the chain, just where it peeped above the neckline. Sherlock was only a silhouette in the nearly perfect darkness, but John could feel his pulse thrumming, hear his breaths fail to calm even as seconds ticked by.

The ring was always worn and always hidden, but John was allowed to know and to touch and to share in the secret. John was only not allowed to see.

But it was dark, now.

He pulled the chain up an inch, and heard a sharp intake of breath over the drumming at the windows. John counted to ten and then brought his other hand up, dragged the chain further up and out until he felt the ring swing free. Laying it gently down, he then felt around the chain until he found the little clasp and bent the necklace between his fingers, popping it open.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock whispered, his voice barely audible, threadbare like an old ghost.

“Science,” John replied, nearly as quietly. He slipped the chain through, little beads tinkling through the ring and then making a silvery little splash on the couch where he let the necklace fall. He then felt around for Sherlock’s hand and started sizing.

He started with the thumb, just to be silly, just to be scientific and test all available options. A short huff ruffled his fringe. The first finger was a bust, and he only managed to get the ring past the first knuckle of the second. And then he wiggled the ring onto Sherlock’s third finger, all the way on, and didn’t know how to feel when he succeeded.

When? Where? Why?

_Who?_

But he wasn’t given much time to sort it all out, the questions or his feelings on the matter, before he realized that the hand he was holding was trembling. Badly. John looked up again, silently cursed the darkness that had allowed him this experiment, and brought up one hand to feel, since his eyes couldn’t tell him what Sherlock’s face was doing.

But of course feeling his friend’s mouth pressed tight wasn’t the same as being able to trace all the curves of a repressed smile or choked-back sob. He needed more to go on, and with a hopefully comforting squeeze of one shaking shoulder, murmured,

“All right?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly against John’s palm, breathing out a trembling sigh.

Well…bugger.

John cast about in a controlled panic. His mind suggested triage and situation assessment and he could have kicked himself for being useless at _this_ , the truly important things in this unexpectedly important moment. Clutching at mental reeds, he latched onto an old memory of some nursery rhyme or folk tale and took careful hold of the ring again.

He twisted it on Sherlock’s finger, once, twice, three times.

“Here, make a wish,” he prompted.

_Tell me what you need._

There was a sound like a sob and John’s heart kicked in renewed panic. He was all out of ideas, never had any good ones in the first place it seemed, and _now_ what was he supposed to do?

…

Kiss back, probably.

Sherlock was already retreating, very likely put off by John’s non-reaction, but he only got about two centimeters away before John came to life and dragged him back in with both hands and all the eagerness of a drowning man offered a luxury yacht. Sherlock was too tall for comfort, tasted of lo mein and beer, and he was standing on John’s foot again god damn it, but it was the best kiss John had ever given and gotten.

= = = = =

He forgot all about the ring until about four o’clock in the morning, at which point he rolled over and began poking and prodding at Sherlock’s ribs.

“Hey. You still awake?”

“No,” came the muffled reply from the feathery depths of a pillow.

“Can I see the ring?”

Sherlock remained buried in goosedown, but he flung his left hand up, nearly backhanding his bedmate.

“I mean the inscription,” John said, grabbing the flailing limb and pressing a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s wrist.

This got a reaction. The curly mop rose up from the bedding and Sherlock squinted suspiciously.

“How did you know that there was an inscription?“

“I deduced it,” John replied loftily. “I’m a genius. My brain is better than everyone else’s brain and I make sure that the whole world knows mpfffth.”

John spit out the pillow and settled quite happily on it, watching as Sherlock twisted the platinum band off his finger and held it out for inspection. The power was back on, and they’d been too lazy to turn off the lamp once they’d rolled into bed, so by turning the ring to catch the light, John managed to read what Sherlock had had engraved.

John chuckled and rubbed his nose to stave off the tears that threatened, and looked over to see Sherlock smiling knowingly at him.

“We’re going out right after breakfast. I want a matching ring,” John declared after clearing his throat twice.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, wrestling his pillow back from John and settling in for an extended cuddle. “We’re sleeping in and then having a decadent brunch. And if you want a matching ring, just check under the blue paisleys in my sock drawer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking that some readers might have their own favorite pet ideas about what the perfect engraving would be, I left it unanswered, but if anyone wants the author's answer as to what the engraving says, Sherlock memorialized the day that they met in both rings.


End file.
